The bee I did like,  buzzed around me in circles,
with a nice tune, and  tried her best to impress,
as I wasn't a flower, just bloomed and could'n't offer
nectar even if I wanted ,because I have exhausted all by now,
such devotion, I guessed is because of misplaced affection
or result of some confusion, so  I prepared
to say good bye to her.

                         but I did underestimate a  bee's frustration
she  came direct to me and stung with all her vengeance
left a thorn in flesh that spoke of unfulfilled desires in general,
But the pain I thought, I deserve though could plead
not guilty in any court. Oh! her sweet vengeance is an enigma,
let her feel good about it, leave me to  nurse my paining spot,
no more  friends with bees as the season of flowers come to a close.

the yellow glow of the rising sun
gives me the gift of renewed hope
and gratitude for my breath and life
today

there seems to be no end
of armed cowards killing peaceful civilians
about to do their jobs or visit friends and chat
at airports  in the underground or in cafés

and then acknowleding full responsibility
for that grandiose achievement
of putting electric wires into some explosives
and sending innocent people to their death

these self-styled martyrs claim
their deeds are prompted by religious ends
and not the simply joy of killing those
     who have no arms for their defense
    and are quite unaware they have become the targets
     of delirious murderers who seriously imagine
     their heinous crimes could please their god
     and   if they blow themselves away together with their victims
     would send them straight into a paradise
     with many earthly and some heavenly rewards

or so they say

watching them over all these years
I have my doubts
that any god has business with those guys
    or they with him

     like other groups before them they abuse religion
     to justify their greed and power games
     god for them is simply a façade
     to mask their inhumanity

it’s time the world says a concerted NO
and makes it clear to all barbarians of our century
that our tolerance
is not for them

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters